Danger Night
by Tori.Lars
Summary: "I need help," Sherlock said, his voice barely more than a whisper. John sat, confused, for another few seconds before the words 'danger night' ran through his mind and he jumped up. - Takes place in A Scandal in Belgravia, slash but not really romance.


**Author's Note**: I think this is best read while actually watching the episode-watch until Sherlock gets home from the morgue, read this, and then watch the rest of it. Whatever works for you, but I think the ending especially is improved by watching the episode afterwards.

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><p>The Christmas party was brought to a halt when Sherlock left.<p>

"Irene Adler is dead," he said to John on the way out. "Mycroft wants me to identify the body. Don't wait up."

"Are you sure you're alright?" John asked hurriedly, not liking the blank look in Sherlock's eyes.

"Yes," answered Sherlock and he left the flat, cleanly closing the door behind him. John went to the window and watched as he got into a cab and drove off. Mrs. Hudson and Jeanette were looking at John silently. He took a deep breath, preparing to up his performance as host, determined that the three of them could still have a good time if they tried hard enough, but his phone rang before he could say a word.

"Hullo?"

"I'm worried about Sherlock."

"Mycroft? Why?"

"I trust that you know about my brother's history regarding substance abuse?"

John thought back to the night Lestrade had the flat searched for illegal drugs. "I know that he _has_ a history, yeah. I don't know details."

Mycroft sighed. "His drugs of choice were heroine and morphine." John felt a shiver go through his chest, but Mycroft didn't pause for that to sink in. "He's been clean, to the best of my knowledge, for a few years now, but if he positively identifies Irene Adler's body tonight, it could be just triggering enough to return him to poor habits."

"You think so?"

"If it is her, and I'm sure it is, I will offer him a cigarette. If he takes it, it's a warning sign that there could be worse on the way. In the meantime, search the flat. See if you can find his stash."

"He has a stash?"

"I don't know. Probably, but he's so full of surprises. I'll call again once he leaves here." Mycroft rung off without another word.

John's hand dropped to his side, the phone wrapped in it tightly. He pursed his lips and looked at Mrs. Hudson. He hesitated before explaining to her and Jeanette the situation.

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Hudson and she immediately hurried to Sherlock's bedroom.

"I'm sorry," John muttered to Jeanette and he got to searching the living room. They combed through the flat, looking in the biggest and most obvious places first, and then moving on to the less probable spots. They had found nothing suspicious by the time John's phone rang again. John knew instinctively that Sherlock had taken the cigarette and Mycroft confirmed it.

"Are you sure tonight's a danger night?" John asked.

"No. But then, I never am. You have to stay with him, John." John didn't like the way Mycroft said his name, placing all the responsibility on him.

"I've got plans."

There was a slight pause before Mycroft simply said, "No."

Jeanette left in a huff and Mrs. Hudson went downstairs. Alone, John held out his arms and dropped them quickly. It was no use complaining at this point. He poured himself a glass of wine and considered turning on the telly—he decided against it because he was likely to fall asleep in front of it and miss Sherlock's return. He grabbed a book instead and settled in his chair to wait up.

It took Sherlock a long time to get home and he still had that frighteningly blank look about him. He didn't answer when John asked if he was okay, and went to bed. John stayed up a few minutes longer, finishing the chapter in his book before finally turning in. He was disappointed about his date not going well. He was horny. He briefly considered masturbating but in self-punishment he refused himself and fell asleep unsatisfied.

"John."

John's face twitched. He forced one eye open and saw the time: 3:04am. He felt so groggy he couldn't remember what had awoken him, so his eye closed again and he started to drift off.

"John."

This time, both eyes opened, but reluctantly. He definitely had heard his name. His face fell toward the door to his bedroom, where he could just make out Sherlock's silhouette in the darkness. John sat up.

"What's going on?" he asked, his words slurred. After a few seconds of silence, he prompted, "Sherlock?"

"I need help," Sherlock said, his voice barely more than a whisper. John sat, confused, for another few seconds before the words '_danger night'_ ran through his mind and he jumped up. He felt queasy as he was hit with the idea that Sherlock had already taken some drug, and he hurried around the bed.

"Help with what? What's wrong?" He reached for the light switch, but Sherlock's hand covered it quickly.

"No lights," said Sherlock, softer than before and John wondered if he was trying to hide that his voice was shaking.

"Okay, no lights. Sherlock, talk to me."

But he didn't say a word. John took his upper arm and pulled him into the room, observing that he was wearing long sleeves that covered his arms. Was that a good sign? John listened carefully to Sherlock's breathing, shakier than normal.

"Have you taken anything?" John asked, unable to fight his anxiety anymore.

"No," he answered and John almost breathed a sigh of relief but held off because he still didn't know the problem. "I don't..." he started but trailed off.

"You don't, what?"

"I don't...want to. I don't want to take anything."

"That's good," said John, trying his best to sound gently encouraging. "You don't have to take anything."

"You're wrong. I do. Have to."

John hesitated as that sank in. Then he moved behind Sherlock, shut the bedroom door and locked it.

"No, you don't," he asserted. Sherlock hadn't moved. John slowly reached out and touched his arm again. Sherlock's whole body was shivering and John felt a pang in his chest. "Sherlock. Listen to me. You don't want to take drugs, and you don't have to take drugs." He moved around to stand in front of Sherlock again. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness by then, but he still had trouble making out Sherlock's features. When Sherlock spoke next, John got chills from the words:

"I'm afraid."

Without a thought, John instinctively wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and squeezed him. At first, he expected (hoped) Sherlock would push him away and snap out of this state John had never seen before. Instead, Sherlock returned the hug and his body shivered much harder than before, as though he had abandoned trying to fight it. They stood in silence for almost a minute before John realized Sherlock was crying. It was all so surreal, John didn't have any idea what to do next. He was just getting the hang of communicating with regular Sherlock. Regular, solid, confident, non-huggy Sherlock.

This felt very much like he was in charge of fixing something broken by an unknown self-destruct button. A broken heart in a machine assumed to have no heart. How does one go about fixing that?

Sherlock's shivering started to die down and his grip on John loosened slightly.

"Do...do you want to talk?" John whispered.

"This has never happened to me before, John. I don't know what to do."

John stifled a sigh and readjusted his arms, trying to indicate that he was willing to stand there embracing as long as Sherlock wanted.

"I'm foolish," Sherlock said. His voice wasn't shaking anymore but it was still quiet. "In the end, I'm as foolish as any of you. I got too emotionally involved. I avoid relationships for this very reason, but even that wasn't enough this time. I shouldn't have let myself..."

"Emotions aren't that simple to control, you know."

Sherlock was quiet for a few seconds before saying, "Neither is addiction."

John felt another chill.

"I have this desire, this craving for anything that will make me numb." Sherlock took a steadying breath. "Nothing does that better than morphine. You can say I don't have to take drugs, I can say I don't want to take drugs, but it isn't so black and white." His voice was not accusatory. He sounded almost resigned. John pulled back to look at his dark face.

"I'm sorry," said John. "I didn't mean to suggest that it was easy. Just that it's possible. And I'll do whatever you need me to do to help. I'll stand here like this the rest of the night. I'll tie you down. I'll call Mycroft."

Sherlock exhaled sharply, almost sounding like a laugh. Then Sherlock kissed him.

It was sudden and John's arms almost fell away from Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock's lips were cold and soft but they pressed against John's firmly. John could barely see that Sherlock's eyes were closed. John's heart started beating much faster and he remembered with a flash the feelings of dissatisfaction before he had fallen asleep. Fighting down his guilt, he returned Sherlock's kiss. He opened his lips and felt Sherlock's tongue dart into his mouth.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if this was a dream.

Sherlock's arms tightened around him, pulling him close and John reached up to stroke Sherlock's hair. The kiss deepened and John felt Sherlock's erection against his hip. Suddenly he was light-headed. John pulled away, breathing heavily. He couldn't tell how long the kiss had lasted. Two minutes? Ten?

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked and John noticed that his voice was much more solid than it had been.

"Yes," said John and he reached for the hem of Sherlock's shirt. If it was a dream, why should he hold back? And if it wasn't, well, it seemed to be helping both of them. He pulled Sherlock's long-sleeved shirt off over his head and then striped off his own t-shirt. Their chests collided together as they resumed their kiss. Sherlock's skin was burning. John started moving, pushing Sherlock towards his bed. On the way, Sherlock slid his hand down the back of John's pajama pants. John gasped and immediately returned the gesture. They both had full erections and they pushed them together through the fabric. Sherlock made a sound between a moan and a grunt and he threw his head back. John kissed his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, and helped rid him of his pants.

Fully naked, Sherlock finally laid back on the bed and opened his arms, encouraging John to join him. John dropped his own pants before crawling on top of Sherlock, straddling his hips. He pressed their erections together, grinding against Sherlock. John fell forward and kissed him, noticing the extremely sexy sound Sherlock was making with each breath, almost a whimper in his desire. Without a word, John reached between them and circled his hand around their erections, stroking them together. Sherlock was thrusting against him, seemingly involuntary.

John was surprised when Sherlock leaned up slightly, reached over John's leg, and began gently squeezing their sacks together in his hand. John gasped at the sensation and moved his hand faster. They stayed locked in this position, only their hands and hips moving, until, with a stifled moan, Sherlock climaxed onto his stomach. His hand convulsed and squeezed harder than before, pushing John over the edge as well. John kept thrusting and stroking for a few seconds until they were both too sensitive and Sherlock started to shy away from his touch.

John fell onto his back next to Sherlock, not touching him. They breathed heavily without saying anything for a while. After two minutes, John grabbed a box of tissues on his night stand, passed them over to Sherlock who used them to clean off his stomach.

John felt his eyes getting heavy. He forced them open but it was a losing battle. Just before drifting off, he felt around until he had hold of Sherlock's hand. He squeezed and felt a squeeze back.

"I'm right here, Sherlock," he said and he was out.

When John next woke up, it was eight o'clock and he was alone in his bed. Sherlock had gone—if he had ever really been there. Could John have dreamed up something like that? It certainly didn't feel real. But then why was he naked? He leaned over the other side of the bed and looked at the waste basket on the floor. A few tissues were crumbled at the bottom, evidence of what had happened in the middle of the night. John closed his eyes, ran his hand over his face. What to do now?

He got up and dressed, putting on the clothes he had originally fallen asleep in the night before. He had to steel himself, work up his courage before he could turn the doorknob and descend the stairs.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, studying something with his microscope. He didn't look up as John entered but greeted him with a bored-sounding "Good morning, John."

"Sherlock," answered John with a nod. He poured himself a glass of milk which he set on the table, across from Sherlock. After a few seconds, he said, "I may have had a weird dream last night."

"Did you? Do you want to talk about it?" asked Sherlock, still focused on whatever it was under his microscope.

"I don't know," said John. "Do _you_?"

Finally Sherlock looked at him, a quick movement of his eyes while the rest of his head stayed still. "Whatever you want to talk about. I reserve the right to not answer, however."

"Of course you do," said John. "You used me, last night. Instead of drugs." He said it calmly, factually.

Sherlock's eyes never left John's face. He nodded very slightly. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds before Sherlock's eyes changed. They softened somehow. "Should I apologize?" Sherlock asked quietly but there was a touch of defensiveness in his voice.

"No," said John. "Considering the other option...you made the better choice."

"For the record," said Sherlock, returning to his microscope, "I did not expect it to go that far."

John rolled his eyes.

"Are you angry with me?" Sherlock asked.

"You mean you can't tell how I feel?"

"I think what you're feeling is very complicated. There are a lot of mixed signals you're giving out now, and I can't pinpoint which of them are true and which are created from feeling hybrids I'm not familiar with. Relationships aren't—"

"My area," John said with him. "Yeah, I know. I'm not angry with you."

"You sound melancholy."

"I don't know how I feel. I was honestly hoping you could tell me."

A smile played on Sherlock's lips at that and John felt a strange sensation in his chest. He realized with a start that he wanted to kiss Sherlock.

"Tell you how you feel when even you don't know," Sherlock muttered. "I'm afraid I can't in this case."

"Can you tell me how you feel?" asked John anxiously.

"I feel a much decreased but still present desire to relapse into my old addictions. It's been coming back steadily since I left your room this morning but I thought it would be rude to wake you again, when you were clearly exhausted. I've been working on my experiments to keep myself distracted."

John's mouth felt a little dry. "Has it helped?"

"Yes. Not as much as you did, but it's certainly better than nothing."

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No." Sherlock suddenly looked up, staring into space. "You said last night you would do anything you could to help me. Does that still apply?"

"Of course."

Sherlock abruptly looked very tired. His shoulders sagged and his hands fell limply into his lap. "I never know how much can go without being said," he muttered. "Things that are obvious to me are rarely obvious to other people, but it's never clear to me when they will understand something unsaid and when they will not. It's important to me that you know I don't go to you out of convenience. You are truly the only person who I feel can help me." He paused and John let those words sink in. "Without help, I will be awake for a few days and eventually relapse. It has happened more than once in the past. I'm unable to sleep because of the cravings, and ultimately satisfying them is the only way my mind can be put at ease. But if you're feeling up to an experiment, I have an idea." Sherlock looked at John again, with such fierceness that it gave John goosebumps. He reached over and hesitantly took Sherlock's hand.

"Whatever you need," said John. Sherlock stood from his chair and embraced John, holding him tightly and running his hands firmly across John's back. Sherlock felt tense, but as John held him, he began to relax.

"You," breathed Sherlock. "Something about you eliminates the cravings. Not entirely, but more than anything else I've found. It's you."

John took a deep breath. "So you want me to sleep with you? Er, sorry, wait, that - that wasn't what I meant," he said, suddenly flustered.

Sherlock chuckled against his shoulder and then pulled away to look at him. "There's no way to say it without bringing to mind common euphemisms, but yes-I'd like you to accompany me to my bedroom so we may sleep together."

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment before John nodded. "Now?" he asked.

"You set the time table, John, seeing as how I need you to proceed. Whenever you're ready, though the sooner the better."

John nodded again, and without another word, walked to Sherlock's bedroom. He stood at the foot of the bed and Sherlock circled around him, pulling off his shirt. Sherlock motioned to the bed. John walked to the other side and pulled back the covers, sliding under them, fully dressed. Sherlock got in on his side and scooted close to John.

Sherlock laid back on his side, facing away from John, and pulled John's arm around his waist. John hesitantly settled in behind him, curled around his back, and took a deep breath. Sherlock relaxed, sinking into the bed and back into John.

"How's this?" asked John. He gingerly put his head on the pillow, feeling a little awkward. He was tired, but not out of his mind sleepy like the night before and being close to Sherlock in this way was striking him as feeling very odd, though not bad.

"Thank you, John," answered Sherlock and he already sounded sleepy. "You saved me last night."

John couldn't stop a small smile from playing on his lips. He softly kissed Sherlock's bare shoulder and suddenly it all felt much more natural. With a content sigh, he fell asleep.

By the next day, Sherlock was almost back to normal. He wasn't eating much and he had stopped talking to John-which was normal enough, though John had hoped the newest intimacy they shared would put a stop to that. Sherlock, like his old self, broke off in the middle of a conversation only to start it again a few hours later. He got lost in thought. He played his violin. He didn't use John for distraction or sleeping anymore and John honestly wasn't sure how he felt about that.

And by New Year's Eve, he decided he was undeniably bitter about it.


End file.
